


What I Wish I'd Known

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Wish 'Verse [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Boss/Employee Relationship, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, First Time, M/M, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Washington is president of the United States. Hamilton is his deputy communications director. Poor decisions are made, mostly on Washington's part.This is the morning after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Forceful](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**

When Washington wakes, there is no sign of Alexander.

No. That is not completely accurate. There are small, unmistakable signs of Alexander all over the Residence as Washington eases upright in bed. An indent in the normally unused second pillow. A scrap of crumpled post-it with barely legible handwriting on the far nightstand, some reminder intended for Hamilton's eyes alone. A discarded hair tie—innocuous black elastic—visible in a patch of sunlight on the floor, but probably impossible to find in the predawn darkness during which Hamilton must have left.

Washington's gut clenches. He expected Alexander to be here. To stay, regardless of the boy's truly appalling sleeping habits. To be proven wrong is… unsettling.

Not just unsettling. _Concerning_. He did not intend to invite Hamilton into his bed last night. Even when he woke, around two a.m. with his boy still asleep in his arms, Washington knew the morning ahead would be complicated. He did not look forward to explaining that this would not— _could not_ —happen again.

But he still expected Hamilton to be _here_. To stay. To see this through, stubborn and insubordinate as always. Washington anticipated digging his heels in and sending Hamilton away, and instead he is alone. Alexander is long gone, snuck out before sunrise, and Washington is left with an ugly pit in his stomach, questioning his own assumptions.

Wondering just how badly he has erred.

Perhaps the scope of his mistake does not matter. There are no circumstances under which last night is anything but disastrous. He can imagine the headline: _Whitehouse Scandal: POTUS Discovered In Flagrante with Deputy Communications Director_. But he'd hoped to speak to Hamilton in the light of day. To apologize—and more importantly to make clear he has no expectations—because much as his feelings for Alexander have grown more distracting every day for months, Washington has no delusions about his place in Hamilton's life.

He _has_ no place in Hamilton's life, beyond the professional. One ill-advised night does not change that, no matter how desperately he hoped for some sliver of closure.

But he is still disappointed to find Alexander gone. The empty space in his bed is not at all what he expected when the boy curled into his arms and fell asleep.

The phone beside him rings, jarring him from his own thoughts. His usual wakeup call from his personal aide. Irrelevant: Washington is already wide awake, and he gets dressed with robotic efficiency. At least he has a busy day before him. They are all busy days, but this one will be worse than most. Scrambling from meeting to meeting, pretending all the while to look unhurried… It will require a great deal of focus.

It will also bring his path across Alexander's at least half a dozen times. They will not be able to talk—not about last night—but at least Washington will be able to see him. He scoops the hair tie up from the floor and slips it into the pocket of his suit coat. No conscious intention—Alexander surely won't need it back—but he can't leave it on the floor. Far too conspicuous a clue. It's bad enough the secret service men on his door must have some idea what happened last night. They won't talk, but they _know_ , and that fact nags at Washington like a toothache.

He needs to see Alexander.

He needs to know his boy is okay.

** Last Night **

There was no way to be certain who closed the distance first. Even if they hadn't been exhausted—stretched too thin and running on fumes—there was something cataclysmic and inevitable about the moment of transition. From standing too close together to clinging tightly in the span of a confused heartbeat.

Papers scattered, dropping from the manila file folder in Washington's hands, as Hamilton's tablet thudded more solidly to the ground.

Giddy adrenaline sang along Washington's nerves as he crushed Alexander to him. That endlessly talking mouth was silent for once, captured in a ferocious kiss, lips parting quickly at the demanding nudge of Washington's tongue.

Arousal was heady and overwhelming beneath Washington's skin, and oh, this was a terrible idea. The Residence doors were firmly shut—Hamilton never discussed speech drafts with even an incidental audience—and the hour was already late. Nearing midnight. Washington had tried to order Hamilton home hours ago, down in the bullpen when the rest of the staff had begun disappearing for the night.

Little surprise Hamilton had not listened. And just as little surprise he knew Washington would still be awake, considering the tension still running high throughout the building. Washington's attempt to retire had resulted in endless pacing rather than sleep; Hamilton's intrusion was more relief than imposition.

But Washington was helpless to explain, even to himself, how they'd leapt from policy changes and media contingencies to _this_.

He was equally helpless to stop.

"Did you lock the door?" Washington pressed the words to the warm line of Hamilton's throat. He barely recognized his own voice, thick and rough with gravel. He sounded frantic and desperate and ravenous, and he could not bring himself to be mortified by any of these things when Alexander was so warm beneath his hands.

"I always lock the door," Hamilton gasped, tilting his head back as Washington's mouth nipped higher along his throat. A gasp, a shiver, a breathless, " _Sir_ ," as Washington's teeth closed harder on the skin just beneath his jaw.

" _Good_." Washington was not entirely confident he could stop touching Alexander long enough to cross the room and turn the lock himself.

Then they were kissing again, just as desperate and eager as before, and Washington lost all capacity for coherent thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington does not expect to find Hamilton waiting for him in the oval office when he finally emerges from the Residence and makes his way downstairs.

Hamilton is not the _only_ one waiting in the oval office: there is also Angelica Schuyler with a briefing that apparently can't wait, even though the relevant meeting isn't scheduled until eleven-thirty; and Aaron Burr seeking signatures on a tall stack of documents Washington could've sworn he signed yesterday.

Alexander hangs back, waiting to approach, allowing the others to speak first. Restless energy bleeds off him in an almost tangible aura. His entire focus appears held by the iPad in his hands, but Washington knows his boy too well to be fooled. He knows better than most how skillfully Hamilton can multitask; and even with dark eyes cast stubbornly downward, Washington can sense the ferocity of his attention.

Washington's own focus is split, even though he knows damn well it shouldn't be. Through Angelica's business, and then Burr's, he keeps only half of his mind where it belongs. The rest is all on his boy, and he is anxious for privacy. For the opportunity to speak, and to gauge exactly how Alexander is reacting to last night's monumentally bad idea.

For the chance to apologize and make himself devastatingly clear: his behavior was out of line, and it will not be repeated.

That his mind now contains far too vivid memories—of his boy pressed against him, clinging to him, sobbing in pleasure beneath him—is immaterial. A blessing and a burden that he _will not_ allow to impact their working relationship. He is the president of the United States, for god's sake. He is supposed to exercise sound judgment on an hourly basis. A one night stand with one of his top staffers is the opposite of good judgment, regardless of how long or how desperately Washington may have wanted it.

Finally—after what feels like several eons—both Angelica Schuyler and Aaron Burr depart. The door closes behind them, and Washington is alone with his boy.

Alone with Alexander and realizing, quite abruptly, that he still has not figured out what to say.

Hamilton's movements are careful, and he is still staring at the tablet in his hands. Even once the two men stand face-to-face, exactly as far apart as decorum dictates, he does not raise his eyes.

Washington peers down into Hamilton's face and feels a spark of nebulous dread at the closed-off expression he finds there.

Alexander Hamilton does not _have_ a poker face. He does not mask his feelings behind blankness and stoicism. There is a reason Washington goes to great lengths to keep him away from diplomats and political opponents alike.

To see him guarding himself so fiercely is a strange and unfamiliar thing, and Washington doesn't like it.

Before he can manage words of his own through the unsteady clog of feeling in his throat, Hamilton speaks.

"Sir, the speech I intended to discuss with you last night… You still need to review the changes. They skirt too close to a policy shift to finalize the draft without your approval." His voice is quiet as he holds the tablet out for Washington's perusal.

He is still not _looking_ at Washington, and the stubborn avoidance is disconcerting as hell.

Washington stares down at the offered tablet for a long time without accepting the handoff. A screen full of words blurs before his eyes, and he blinks to clear his vision. His heart beats alarmingly fast.

"Sir," Hamilton says in a distinctly strained voice, thrusting the tablet toward him without raising his head.

"Alexander," Washington says.

Hamilton flinches at the sound of his name. Or maybe at the way Washington has said it, thoughtless and uncertain and a little bit desperate.

Washington's chest goes cold and he takes an immediate backward step without accepting the tablet. Hamilton is still _not looking_ at him, and he is far too quiet. Far too still. Even his posture is wrong, taut and sharp and waiting.

"Mr. President, please check the draft," Hamilton says into the agonizing silence. "I have a lot of other work to do, and I can't start on any of it until I have your approval on this speech." No one else would dare rebuke Washington for wasting their time, but somehow the brazen insubordination does not reassure. The words don't carry the prideful stubbornness with which his boy usually speaks.

He needs to apologize—no point asking what's wrong under the circumstances—but Washington finds he can't manage a single word.

When Hamilton takes a step forward and brandishes the document again, Washington finally accepts. He makes sure not to touch skin in taking the handoff, and the moment the iPad is in his grip Washington forces his focus to the words on the screen. It's a difficult task, keeping his attention on the speech when all he wants is to fix the jagged fissure spreading between himself and Alexander.

He can't see the contours of the fault line—doesn't know how far or how deep it runs—doesn't understand how even his unconscionable behavior could make his boy refuse to look at him now.

No. Not 'his boy'. Hamilton is _not_ his boy—is not a boy at all, but a young man with brains and ambitions and talent—and Washington would do well to remember it.

Washington puts more distance between them, sitting on the front edge of his desk instead of standing in the middle of the room to read. The speech is long, and Hamilton has done good work. Even if Washington were at the top of his game, this would not be a quick review.

On reaching the final line, he is relatively certain he's read and comprehended every sentence. "This is excellent." He hands the tablet back, not entirely certain when Hamilton moved closer. "Does it require a signature?"

"No." Hamilton accepts the device and powers it down. "I'll run everything past Lafayette, but we should be good."

There's a moment, tense and motionless, where Washington is certain Hamilton will bolt without another word.

"Before you go," Washington flounders, "I owe you an apology for my behavior last night." The words feel woefully too little. Worse, they make Hamilton shrink even more tightly into himself, a sight that clenches Washington's heart painfully behind his ribs.

"I don't need an apology from you."

"Nonetheless," Washington presses, though it's difficult to speak calmly. "I exercised an appalling lack of judgment, and I've put you in a difficult position."

"Sir," Hamilton says, and the word sounds like a protest despite how quietly it's spoken.

"I give you my word it won't happen again." A pause, a swallow past the feelings caught in his throat, but he manages to add, "And you have nothing to worry about from me." He should offer Hamilton help finding an alternate work situation. After last night, how can he justify keeping the boy so close, keeping him in a position where they work together every damn day?

But he is helpless to send Alexander away. Even if he weren't, a change in assignment would look like a demotion—away from the inner circle of White House staff—and Washington will not damage Hamilton's prospects that way.

"Please don't patronize me," Hamilton says, low steel in his tone. "I know you would never retaliate."

Abrupt and unbidden, Washington's mind fills with a vivid memory: Alexander shaking and clinging to him as Washington's cock slid—not without difficulty—into impossibly tight heat. A cry muffled against his throat; Washington took it for pleasure at the time. He wonders now if he was wrong.

He should not say this aloud, but he hears his own voice break the quiet. "Did I hurt you last night?"

The question earns another flinch, but Hamilton's response is instantaneous. "Of course you didn't fucking hurt me." Viciously emphatic. Washington wishes he could believe the assertion.

"Then why won't you look at me?"

The question visibly startles Hamilton. Washington watches, with both fascination and a sinking heart, as he resolves himself and straightens his shoulders. There's fresh confrontation in Hamilton's posture, in the jut of his jaw, in the vertical crease at the center of his brow.

Even so it takes several seconds to raise his head and look Washington in the eye.

The delay makes Washington's chest hurt. The unreadable expression on Hamilton's face is even worse. Washington is accustomed to deciphering his boy's thoughts at a glance. This guarded wall is strange and unwelcome, and Washington can't call it out when he knows _damn well_ that he's the one who put it there.

God, what has he done?

"Was there anything else, sir?" Hamilton asks with just a flicker of familiar insubordination. "Or can I go now?"

"You can go." Washington swallows, but his mouth is dry.

He watches Hamilton disappear, and bites his tongue to keep from calling him back.

** LAST NIGHT **

They didn't talk much after that initial exchange. They didn't talk at all, really, as Washington guided his boy toward the bed and started fumbling with buttons and fabric. Alexander's silence echoed uncharacteristic between them, but Washington could think of nothing to say.

Fortunate then, that neither of them required _words_ to navigate. Not when they were understanding each other so completely, both moving with almost violent impatience. The sounds Hamilton made—the hitch of unsteady breath—the gasps and hisses and stifled moans were eloquent enough.

Alexander muffled a cry against Washington's shoulder when a broad hand slid past his open fly and palmed him through his briefs.

The boy was an inferno of heat along Washington's front. His restless hands seemed uncertain about where to settle, drifting from Washington's shoulders to his chest to an uncomfortably tight grip on sturdy biceps. Hamilton's own body seemed so slight in comparison. Washington felt the conflicting urges winding tighter inside him: to protect on the one hand, and on the other to _utterly despoil_.

Of course Hamilton did not need his protection. And as to the other urge, it was difficult to find any hint of reservation in the way Hamilton was already struggling with Washington's belt and fly. Shoving buckle and leather aside, fumbling the zipper of perfectly tailored pants.

Washington captured his boy's wrists, one in each hand, and claimed a forceful kiss. Deep, demanding, unapologetic. The low answering whimper _could_ have been a figment of Washington's imagination—it was like no sound he'd ever heard or imagined his boy making—but his heart gave an answering pulse.

He had wanted this too long.

He didn't break the kiss until they were both breathless. His own lungs worked quickly, sucking in new air, and he saw Hamilton's chest rise and fall unsteadily.

The bed was so close, right against their legs, and it was _so easy_. Just a push, light and not quite careful, to send Alexander flopping down onto the mattress. Not a graceful fall, but an endearing snapshot of flailing limbs and surprise as Hamilton landed on his back atop the soft blankets. His boy immediately propped himself on his elbows and stared with wide eyes as Washington tugged both shoes off Alexander's feet—socks too—before leaning down to do away with his own.

Then Washington's knees hit the edge of the mattress. And never mind the fact that they were both still wearing entirely too much clothing. When Hamilton parted his legs in invitation, Washington crawled over him without delay, closing the distance and taking that eager mouth in another desperate kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

Busy as his morning is, Washington doesn't have time to stew during the next three hours. He forces the gnawing sensation of unfinished business aside and does his best to focus on the work before him.

He succeeds only imperfectly. By eleven o'clock, Eliza—intuitive saint that she is—has managed to clear his calendar of all but the most essential meetings. He's so grateful he doesn't even mind when she corners him in the Oval Office to ask if he's okay.

"You just seem distracted." She eyes him with unmasked concern. "It's not like you."

"I'm fine," Washington says—a blatant lie—and adds, "I just didn't sleep well last night."

This is also not true. He slept better with Hamilton in his bed than he has otherwise slept in years. Physically, he is rested and energized. But through two additional encounters, Hamilton has continued to avoid him. Has not offered even the superficial acknowledgments required by protocol.

"Sir, forgive me if I'm overstepping… but did you and Alexander fight about something?"

Washington manages to keep perfectly still despite an unpleasant roil of guilt. He stares at Eliza with an expression kept deliberately blank, and does not speak until he trusts his voice to remain steady.

"Of course not. Why?"

"You've never gone this long without calling him to your office."

Washington blinks and tucks that information away as calmly as he can. He _does_ summon Hamilton frequently—the boy's talents and insight are invaluable far beyond the narrow scope of a speech writer—but he hadn't realized how noticeable his preference has grown. He will have to be more careful. More circumspect. Especially in light of last night's unpardonable misstep.

"Is that the only reason?" he asks, not entirely certain why it matters.

Eliza peers straight through him, but ultimately she answers with candor. "Alexander is quiet today. He's _never_ quiet. I thought… If you two had a disagreement, that could be two birds with one stone."

Washington manages to quirk one corner of his mouth into a convincing approximation of a smile. "Ms. Schuyler, Hamilton and I disagree several dozen times a day. Sometimes fiercely. Whatever's troubling him, it's not a difference of opinion."

Eliza returns his smile, her own expression faintly sheepish. Then, without a word, she nods and withdraws to her desk. Closing the door behind her. Leaving Washington truly alone for the first time since his day began.

He quickly discovers that _being alone_ is not at all calming. The moment to himself is more curse than blessing, allowing him the space and the silence to _think_.

And to question every scrap of memory from the night before.

Alexander's reticence today puts a new and worrying lens over the events of last night. And much as Washington tries to cling to the certainty that Hamilton was enthusiastically willing, he finds the evidence less than convincing in the guilt-tinged light of day. Hamilton never said _out loud_ what he wanted. He did not say _yes_ —Washington didn't even ask—and that failure settles on his chest with staggering weight. For several seconds he cannot breathe.

Even once he coaxes his lungs back into action, the fear is still there. Alongside his memory of the silence between them, he is painfully aware of his own position. The power he wields is immeasurable. Even if it were not, Washington can't remember the last time Hamilton refused him anything. How could the intimacies they shared ever be truly consensual?

Christ, he knew the instant he put his hands on Alexander that he was making a mistake; he simply did not care enough to _stop_.

Now he has his own culpability to live with—his own worst self—and it's abruptly clear his apology was not enough. Hamilton's continued distance proves the point all too well, but Washington is helpless to come up with an alternative approach.

He could simply wait. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps their equilibrium will return in due course, and the worst of the awkwardness will fade.

But what if it doesn't? They can't continue like this. Eliza has already noticed and reached alarmingly accurate conclusions. Washington does not employ inattentive fools; others will inevitably make the same connections and spot the new tension. If anyone recognizes it for what's actually gone wrong…

Washington can't even picture the disastrous domino effect if that information fell into the wrong hands.

Of course, before the wrong hands, there is still Alexander. There is still the harm Washington has done, and the fact that there must be some way… If not to make amends, at least to do the best thing for Hamilton.

**LAST NIGHT**

The sound Hamilton made when Washington's fingers slid inside him was the stuff of wet dreams and impossible fantasies. A throaty gasp of pleasure followed by a low and breathless, "Oh, _fuck_."

A moment later—barely long enough for Washington to wonder if this was too much—Alexander spread his legs wider, wordless encouragement allowing the slick touch deeper. Washington stared down at the impossible sight beneath him, at _Alexander_ naked in his bed, arching his back as Washington's long fingers fucked into him.

They were both naked now, and Washington's nerves hummed with greedy impatience. His cock, hard since the first moment he'd touched his boy, strained desperate for friction. He wanted to enjoy the touch of bare skin beneath his weight, feel Hamilton gasping and shaking against him.

But Washington took his time. Determined to do this right, determined to make it _good_. He'd imagined this so many times; he had no intention of allowing Alexander to leave this bed unsatisfied.

Beyond this determination was the practical fact that Hamilton was unexpectedly tight. His body eased for the slide of Washington's fingers, muscles relaxing to allow him in. But even slick with lube, it was not easy; it was not _immediate_. And while it had been a very long time since Washington last touched someone this way, he was not an idiot.

He wondered how long it had been for Hamilton, but he didn't ask the question aloud. It didn't ultimately matter; it wasn't enough to make him stop.

The understanding slowed him down a little. His touch, already cautious, turned more gentle as he worked his boy open. They had all night. He would spend the time necessary to loosen Alexander's body, draw this out until both of them were frantic and shaken and desperate for more.

As both fingers slotted in all the way to the final knuckle, Washington couldn't resist dropping his weight forward onto his other arm. A little awkward at this angle, but he didn't mind. He kissed Hamilton again to swallow the ragged groan.

Alexander reached for him—clung to him—as Washington curled both fingers inside him. Earning another shattered sound of pleasure, a full-body shiver as lips parted for the demanding thrust of Washington's tongue. There was something almost submissive in the way Alexander opened for him, the way he spread his thighs and arched along the mattress. Washington partially withdrew his fingers, waited a teasing moment, then slid deep once more.

Hamilton broke from the kiss when Washington brushed against his prostate. Not just gasping now, but cursing aloud with flustered heat. Tucking his face to Washington's chest as the fingers inside him twisted and curled and then withdrew, only to fuck in again harder than before.

Washington buried a smile in Alexander's hair. He could do this all damn night.


	4. Chapter 4

By evening, Washington knows what he has to do.

It's nothing as solid as a _plan_. He certainly has not figured out a way to rewind the events of the past twenty-four hours and remedy the choices he made. Short of that, he knows damn well there are no easy answers.

But he’s spent every spare moment thinking about Alexander, and certainty has settled unyielding beneath his skin. Even if it's little more than instinct and a fuzzy sense of direction, it's enough to guide him forward. He needs to speak with Hamilton again. He needs to be perfectly and utterly clear.

Hamilton has already refused his apology, but Washington can do better.

He waits until late enough that only the most stubborn of his staff remain. Of those still here, everyone is busy at their own tasks. Ensconced in offices, doors firmly shut against intrusions. If Washington's business were with anyone else, he might fear they'd gone home for the night. But Alexander Hamilton will inevitably be the last to retire, more likely to fall asleep on the lumpy couch in his office than to go home and salvage what proper sleep he can manage.

There's still a chance Alexander won’t be here. Today has not been a normal day, and the desire to be elsewhere could overrule his ferocious work ethic.

But as Washington makes his way along a nearly empty hall, he finds Hamilton's office door wide open, a single lamp glowing inside. Hamilton is still here. Of the handful of staff still at work, Hamilton's is the only door open.

It seems too much to hope that he has been waiting, but Washington eases into the open door frame. He hovers there at the threshold, and when his presence goes unnoticed he knocks lightly on the jamb.

"Just a second," Hamilton says without looking up. He is scribbling something by hand, pen moving furiously across a yellow legal pad. Discarded sheets of paper lie crumpled all over the desk and floor. Whatever Hamilton is drafting, it is not going well.

Washington waits without a word. Even on a good day, Hamilton has little patience for interruptions chasing away his train of thought. It's a safe bet he would be even more irate than usual tonight.

"Okay." Hamilton caps his pen and sets his work aside. "What do you—"

The question cuts short when he raises his eyes and realizes who is standing in his office doorway.

"Forgive me for intruding." It's only long practice that keeps Washington's voice steady. "Can we talk?"

Hamilton is silent for a long time. The narrowed eyes and thinned lips make Washington almost certain the boy is about to point out the obvious: they already talked, what's the point of repeating the exercise?

Instead, Hamilton belatedly answers. "Yeah. Okay. Come on in."

Washington remains exactly where he is. "It doesn't have to be here." The last thing he wants is to make Alexander feel trapped in his own space. It's the same reason he didn't summon the boy back to the Oval Office, even once resolved to have this conversation. Neither location is neutral territory. If Hamilton has some other suggestion, Washington will follow readily.

But Alexander rolls his eyes as he stands from behind his desk. "I said, _come on in_. And close the door behind you." He crosses the room as he speaks, reaching the wall of windows in three short strides. A quick tug on the hanging cord, and blinds cover the glass, closing out the view of the bullpen. Creating a convincing illusion of privacy.

Despite the way Washington's heart is suddenly hammering in his chest, he obeys the command. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the door firmly shut behind him.

For all the normalcy of Hamilton's exasperation a moment before, the silence that follows is just as tense as every previous run-in over the course of this interminable day. Alexander stands before him with shoulders taut. Meeting his eyes, yes, but with a caginess that suggests the effort is costing him.

Washington cannot keep meeting that deliberate look. Perhaps it paints him a hypocrite, but he can't do it. He lets his own gaze fall. Another moment and he drops onto the couch, his weight squishing the cushions and jostling the stacks of paper arrayed haphazardly at the other end.

Hamilton continues to watch him for several seconds before finally easing back—away—and hiking himself onto the edge of the desk. His heels bump the wood paneling as his legs dangle without reaching the floor. Washington draws a slow breath and then forces himself to raise his eyes.

This time Hamilton is not looking directly at him. Is instead staring at a spot just past Washington's shoulder. The blind-covered window. Which means it's easier this time. Washington keeps his head up, keeps his eyes on Hamilton's face. Desperate for any scrap of information he might glean, even if Alexander _is_ trying to guard his expression.

Washington is not deliberately stalling. But he must take too long, because eventually Hamilton straightens his shoulders and speaks in an impatient tone.

"What'd you need?" He sounds tight and strained—maybe even scared—as he adds, "I didn't figure we had anything else to talk about."

With difficulty, Washington answers, "I know you don't want an apology. But that doesn't absolve me under the circumstances."

"Jesus, you're talking like you committed a crime. It was _just sex_."

Washington's stomach goes tight at the blunt assertion—at the very idea that sex with Alexander Hamilton could ever be _just_ anything—but it's not the kick of too much feeling that freezes the words unspoken on his tongue. It's the other piece of what Hamilton has just said. The incisive _twist_ of a point the boy probably didn't even intend to make.

Washington _does_ feel like he has committed a crime.

No wonder his heart's been in his throat all day. No wonder the guilt threatens to eat him alive every time he catches Hamilton refusing to look at him. No wonder he feels hollow and achy and wrong inside.

Suddenly there is only one conceivable path forward. Extreme, permanent, and yet it's the only way he can think to make this right. He is clearly not fit to wield the power he possesses; what choice does he have but to set it aside? The transition will be ugly—the entire nation will want to know _why_ —but John Adams will serve out the rest of Washington's term reliably enough. He will continue the programs and projects already begun by Washington's administration. He is loyal, and smart, and he will manage.

"Don't you fucking dare." Hamilton speaks the words with enough quiet force to knock Washington back into the present.

He blinks and realizes Hamilton is staring him down. There is something like rage glinting in dark, expressive eyes.

Washington swallows. "I don't know what you're—"

" _Bullshit_ ," Alexander hisses. "Don't goddamn lie to me. You can't resign."

Washington founders for a caught-out moment before answering, "I would not consider this lightly."

"You shouldn't be considering it at all," Hamilton says. "You're the president of the United States. You can't just quit because you had a bad day."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Washington sits straighter and squares his shoulders. Not so much bracing for a fight as shoring up his resolve.

Hamilton bristles. "What kind of president runs away at the first whiff of scandal?"

_Scandal_. Washington shakes his head, because that's not it. That's not what this is. That word doesn't come close to encompassing how badly he erred.

He hears his own voice blurt a retort before his brain can weigh in. "I've got a better question for you. What kind of president sexually assaults a member of his staff, and then covers it up instead of facing the consequences?"

The words have an immediate impact. Washington can't remember any other time he's successfully stunned Hamilton to silence, and he finds the experience overwhelmingly unpleasant.

Alexander's expression has twisted sharply. He looks gutted. Wide-eyed and wounded and distinctly like he is about to either cry or throw something at Washington's head.

Washington is ready to duck in a hurry; there are several potential projectiles within reach.

"You fucking take that back," Hamilton says after an agonizing stretch of silence. The demand is low and rough with gravel, a first hint of anger creeping past shock. "You didn't _assault_ me, Jesus, what— What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?"

"I'm not an idiot, Alexander," Washington says, even as the show of indignation ignites a sliver of irrational relief.

"Debatable," Hamilton counters. "I kissed you. I started us on this path."

Washington does not remember anything so clear and obvious as Hamilton makes it sound, but even if he did. "A kiss is not blanket permission. It's certainly not consent for everything else I did to you last night."

"Everything you _did to me_?" An even brighter fury flashes in Hamilton's face. "All due respect sir, but fuck you."

Washington's spine straightens with surprise. "Son—"

"Oh, _hell_ no." It's impressive, honestly, that Hamilton is still managing to keep his voice down. Normally when he's this visibly angry, his ripostes rise violently in volume. "Don't go there. Don't you fucking dare."

"I'm just trying to—"

"You're being a patronizing asshole is what you're doing." Hamilton is glaring at him now. It's an improvement on the outright avoidance of the day, but it still isn't pleasant. "I'm not your son. And you sure as hell don't get to _fuck me_ and then throw that word around."

It's Washington's turn to flinch now. At the raw accusation in Hamilton's words. At the shaky bravado with which the boy is staring him down.

He carefully does not look away. But he can't figure out how to break the silence that's abruptly settled between them. He is unaccustomed to this quiet anger. He doesn't know what to make of it.

Maybe Hamilton is simply being mindful of the fact that these office walls are not soundproof. They aren't alone in the building. And for all Washington's talk about facing consequences, he's not keen on the possibility of being overheard either.

"Sir." Hamilton sounds even more strained now. "You didn't assault me. You didn't take anything I wasn't offering."

"Your reactions today suggest otherwise."

"How many times are you gonna make me say this? You _didn't hurt me_."

Washington holds his ground. He returns Hamilton's hard stare with a piercing, stubborn look of his own. It's not that he thinks Hamilton is lying—he sincerely doubts the boy is capable of dishonesty right now—but when words and body language disagree so vastly, there's obviously more to this than Alexander is admitting.

So he waits, resisting with difficulty the urge to ask probing questions. To needle and interrogate when, much as he needs this information, he knows full well he is not entitled to it.

It seems an eternity before Hamilton's gaze cuts to the floor and his shoulders slump in surrender.

"It wasn't like that."

"Please talk to me, Alexander." Washington's heart aches at how small his boy suddenly looks. The stubborn bravado has vanished as quickly as the anger in his voice. He looks so damn young, and it's abruptly all Washington can do to stay sitting on this couch. The desire to approach wars with an even more forceful instinct to go find some authority and turn himself over.

He stays put instead, but it's an unwelcome challenge. He waits, allowing Alexander time to collect his thoughts. Patient despite the desperate curl of emotion in his chest.

"You didn't hurt me," Hamilton repeats after an endless stretch of minutes. He says it more calmly this time. Composed, despite the way he is glaring at the carpet. "It was just… more than I expected. _Good_ , but… a lot."

"More than you expected," Washington repeats, not quite a question. His mind summons devastatingly clear memory. Alexander's body so damn tight around his fingers—around his cock—and Washington's idle wondering over how long it'd been since anyone touched him like this.

His breath hitches audibly, drawing Hamilton's attention back to his face. Washington tries to school his expression, but he fails.

"You're being patronizing again," Hamilton accuses sullenly.

"Alexander—"

"Everyone's a virgin sometime," Hamilton snaps. "It's not a big deal."

"If I'd known—"

A bark of harsh laughter interrupts him this time. The sound is quick and short, and Hamilton quiets fast. Then says in a soft, furious voice, "What? You'd have been more gentle? Believe me, you were plenty careful with me. Or are we going to pretend you wouldn't have touched me at all?"

Washington can't make that claim. He is painfully certain he would have done the same. Not a proud fact, but the honest and inescapable truth.

"Didn't think so," Hamilton mutters. His hands shift and curl tightly around the edge of the desk. "It doesn't matter, okay?"

Resolve smoothes Washington's voice. "You're right. It _doesn't_ matter. It doesn't change the fact that I was out of line. At best I misused my authority, at worst…" He bites his own lower lip to stop barreling forward, but his meaning hangs awful in the office between them. He will not convince Hamilton just how poorly he behaved—how easy it would be to cast Washington's actions as criminal—but he doesn't need to convince him. Since he stopped short of saying the words aloud, there is no handhold for Hamilton to latch onto and argue.

Stubborn as he is though, of course Hamilton doesn't simply let the observation lie unchallenged. "You didn't coerce me."

"Not intentionally," Washington concedes. "But my intentions are irrelevant."

"That's not what I meant." The anger is back in Hamilton's voice, but this time he doesn't maintain the measured quiet. This time agitation raises his volume with every word. "You're talking like I couldn't— Like I didn't know— Jesus, if you had _any fucking idea_ how long I've wanted you to—"

And then, tripping on his own words—nearly shouting with all the force of frustration and feeling—Hamilton _stops_. His eyes flash impossibly wide as he chokes to mortified silence.

As he stares across the tiny office and sits perfectly, terrifyingly still.

 

****

**LAST NIGHT**

By the time he withdrew his fingers and took his place between Alexander's thighs, Washington was nearly mindless himself with need.

He kissed his boy again, held him close, thrilled at skinny arms wrapping around his shoulders and tugging him nearly off balance. There was impatience in the way Hamilton bit at Washington's lower lip when the kiss ended, and in the way he arched beneath Washington's weight. Impossible to ignore the way Alexander was trembling, but there was no hesitation between them. No opportunity for retreat with his boy clinging so tightly.

Washington's cock strained eagerly, condom already slick, hard length ready to press into waiting heat. With a soft grunt, he braced himself on one arm so he could see Alexander's face when he took himself in hand, lined up, and pushed carefully but inexorably forward. There was resistance, muscle relaxing only grudgingly. Hamilton's eyes—open and clouded with heat—closed when the head of Washington's cock slid completely inside him.

" _Fuck_ ," Alexander breathed, wild and winded. His fingers dug hard into Washington's arm and shoulder, but his legs spread wider. A plea for more.

Washington thrust deeper, still careful despite the impatient hunger twisting tight beneath his skin. He eased into his boy by maddening degrees. Watchful. Memorizing every detail of feeling as it flickered across Hamilton's helplessly expressive face.

Alexander was trembling harder now. Or maybe it was just more evident, with the vice grip of his body so tight around Washington's cock.

"Breathe, my boy." Washington groaned the command, willing him to relax.

Alexander obeyed without hesitation. Eyes still closed, he drew a shuddering breath. Let it out long and slow. Relaxed his body enough for Washington to thrust deeper still. Arched off the bed as though frantic to take him all the way in.

"Easy." Washington ducked his head and pressed a lingering kiss to the shivering line of Alexander's throat. "I've got you, there's no hurry."

Hamilton subsided, but only for a moment. Only for the time it took Washington to finally—hungrily—fill him.

It was _agony_ to still himself with their bodies flush. But Washington did it—he managed somehow—and when his senses stopped swimming, he kissed his boy again.


	5. Chapter 5

Stunned silence closes in like a thunderclap following Hamilton's outburst. Sharp, sudden, vicious. Washington's heart gives a lurch at what Alexander has just admitted. The words are no less a confession for their thoughtless heat.

God, if only it could be _simple_. The knowledge that Hamilton wants him— _has wanted_ him—perhaps even harbors deeper affections… These things should delight him. They should mean relief and a rush of pleasure.

Instead, Washington swallows back any hint of delight he might take in Alexander's words. They don't change his own position, or his responsibility for taking things too far. They do not absolve him. He has still stepped far out of bounds, and the damage can't be undone.

He's let Alexander down, regardless of what the boy may have thought he wanted.

Worse, Hamilton's gaze has fallen to the floor, evasive again. The tense posture is a perfect match for the guarded way he's been behaving all day.

The sight makes Washington's heart pulse with fresh guilt, because he knows this is his fault. _His_ inappropriate obsession with a subordinate, _his_ lapse in judgment, _his_ failure to remain professional. He can't find his voice. Even if he could, what would he say? Alexander has already violently refused any apology; and despite being visibly upset, he seems equally opposed to acknowledging Washington's mistakes.

No good can come of staying in this room, Washington realizes abruptly. He rises to his feet, reluctant and wordless, and crosses the office.

He's gotten as far as touching the door before Hamilton says, "Please don't leave."

Washington freezes without turning the handle. Closes his eyes for just a moment. Even when he opens them, he keeps his gaze turned forward, staring at smooth woodgrain and wondering if he should make his escape anyway. Ignore the plea in Alexander's voice and simply _go_.

But he's not strong enough. He stays put. Biting his tongue for fear of saying something stupid, wondering if Hamilton will break this agony of silence.

It feels like an eternity passes, but Hamilton does finally speak. "I've got no delusions, okay? I know I fucked up last night. One-night-stands aren't supposed to have consequences. Not like this. And I get that you don't feel… the same way I do. I'm not an idiot."

Washington tries— _god_ how he tries—but he can't entirely contain the burst of pained laughter that fractures from his chest in answer. The very idea that he could be upset over knowing Alexander wants more from him than physical satisfaction… It _is not_ funny. But it's so ridiculous he doesn't know where to begin refuting it.

He _needs_ to refute it, though any admission he makes will only damn him further. He can't allow his boy to think Washington would use him that way.

"Alexander," he says, still without turning from the door. "If you think a lack of feeling on my part is the problem here…"

"Sir?"

The glimmer of hope in Alexander's voice is too much for Washington's heart. He knows he's not imagining it. And he recognizes just as surely the danger of the trap before him. How fierce the temptation to accept the offer implicit in everything Hamilton has said.

Washington forces himself to put his back to the door. From there it's just a deep breath and a handful of strides to the couch. He sits, stiff with keeping his guard up. He clasps his hands over his knees and forces himself to raise his head.

"I need you to understand," he says softly. "My feelings don't matter. Who started it _does not matter_. I have unparalleled authority, and you are an employee of this administration. I should not have touched you."

"I wanted you to," Alexander protests, expressive eyes gone wide and sincere.

"And I am telling you, it _does not matter_."

"My feelings don't matter." Hamilton's gaze narrows with a glint of anger as he echoes the words.

With difficulty Washington stays on target. "Not in measuring _my_ responsibilities." He watches Alexander closely. The hurried way the boy turns his head aside, the visible swallow as his throat works, the quick blink that could signal threatening tears. Whitened knuckles where elegant hands grip the edge of the desk too tightly.

"Of course your feelings matter. But even if you… This isn't…" Damn it, why are words so difficult when they matter most? Washington draws a long breath and slows himself down. "Regardless of what you may have wanted last night, you can't tell me you're pleased about it today."

Hamilton's focus whips sharply back to Washington, and there's something instant and defensive when he snarls, "That's not—"

" _Alexander_ ," Washington interrupts, soft but firm. Small miracle that it actually stops Hamilton short. "Please be honest with me."

A visible tremble moves through Alexander's small frame. He blinks across the room, caught-out and owlish. There's an unsteadiness in the way he catches his lower lip between his teeth, something self-conscious in the hunch of narrow shoulders. But there is also something familiar and stubborn beneath those tells.

Before Washington can press the issue, Hamilton slips down from the desk and crosses the room. No obvious hesitation before sweeping the clutter efficiently from couch to floor and taking a seat at Washington's side. He doesn't make any effort to put proper distance between them; if anything his proximity seems deliberate. Settling on the centermost cushion, so close their knees bump and arms brush together.

It is several seconds before Hamilton speaks. "You really didn't hurt me. I figured you'd be good in bed, but god, you could teach classes."

Washington wants to protest, but he senses this is not the point. This is simply Hamilton approaching the subject, circling, finding his way in. Washington bites his tongue to keep quiet, forces an air of patience even though patience is the very last thing he feels in this moment.

His efforts are rewarded after several seconds of uncomfortable waiting.

"I guess I panicked this morning. I woke up in your arms and I freaked out. I don't know _why_ , I just… Fucking hell, it doesn't make sense. I finally got what I wanted, and all I could think to do was run away."

"Of course it makes sense," Washington blurts, despite his best intentions _not_ to interrupt.

"How?" The disbelieving glare is audible in Hamilton's voice. "How the fuck do you figure that? I've been fantasizing about you for _literal years_. I shouldn't be upset about this!"

Washington doesn't know how to bridge the gap in Hamilton's conclusions. He's not the one with eloquence and clarity at his proverbial fingertips. He doesn't have the faintest clue how to convince Hamilton of reasoning that seems so painfully obvious in his own mind.

At last he manages, "Fantasy is one thing. Reality is… This. Me. An authority figure who let you down." He pauses, but for once Hamilton does not interject, and so Washington presses gracelessly on. "Of course you're upset. I've never given you cause to doubt my integrity before. But _you know_ , consciously or not, that I crossed a line last night."

"Sir," Hamilton says, but it's a thoughtful syllable. Thick with emotion rather than protest. Confusion lingers amid all that uncertainty, and the sound of it makes Washington's chest hurt.

He forces himself to turn his head and look his boy directly in the eye. "I've made you question whether you can trust me at all. And for that I'm truly sorry."

This time Hamilton doesn't reject the apology. Or maybe he intends to, but he doesn't get the chance before a tapping at the door startles them both. Hamilton rises quickly, darting across the office. It's the smart thing, reaching the door himself and opening it wide, nothing to hide. Nothing untoward happening here.

It's Angelica Schuyler standing on the other side of the door, looking bleary and exhausted but still impeccably put together. "Jesus, you _are_ still here. Alexander, I told you to _go home_." It takes her a moment to notice Hamilton isn't alone in the office, and then her eyebrows shoot high on her forehead. "Oh. Mr. President. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't." Washington pushes himself up from the couch, realizing just how tired he is himself. "It's late. You should _all_ have left hours ago." Christ, it's nearly midnight. Hasn't anyone on his staff heard of work-life-balance?

He reconsiders. If they had, they probably would not be working for _him_.

"Just a couple more things to wrap up here," Angelica promises. She steps back from the door as he approaches, as Hamilton does the same on his side of the threshold. Both of them giving him space to leave, but making it clear by their body language that they intend to stay. Just a little longer. A little more work to do.

Washington has never been able to boss Angelica around. Never mind that she works for him; Angelica Schuyler is subordinate to no one. But Hamilton is a different story. And perhaps it is playing dirty pool, but Washington stops just outside the office door. Turns and locks his boy in a stern look.

"Go home, Alexander. That's an order."

Hamilton gives him an incredulous look, but all he says is, "Of course, sir."

Washington does not wait to see if the command is actually obeyed. He crosses the bullpen, his forgotten secret service agents moving quickly into step behind him as he navigates darkened halls, toward his bed and the sleep he sorely needs.

 

****

**LAST NIGHT**

Considering how long and how desperately he had wanted this, perhaps it was no surprise Washington didn't last long. There was no reason to be embarrassed about it. Hell, even if he were inclined to be self-conscious—stamina had never been a shortfall of his before—it didn't matter when Alexander's orgasm followed almost instantly behind his own.

Washington held his boy tightly in the seconds that followed, reluctant to pull out. They were both breathing hard, and one of Alexander's hands curled loosely at the nape of Washington's neck. The other rested against his chest—palm spread flat over Washington's heart—as though measuring the beats. The stillness was imperfect. It was warmth and fondness and giddy satisfaction. It was everything he had ever secretly wished for when he looked at Alexander.

It was everything he _already knew_ he could not keep.

He withdrew carefully when he finally regained some semblance of his usual coordination. His softening cock hypersensitive now, Alexander's sharp inhale all too tangible, the condom disposal a quick matter that cost him little thought.

He should send Alexander away. This was already a mistake of unforgivable proportion; he should not compound it by allowing the boy to remain in his bed.

But even before looking him in the eye, Washington couldn't bring himself to kick Alexander out. What good would it do, to welcome so many intimacies only to offer careless rejection immediately after? He wouldn't do it. Morning would be soon enough. They could _talk_ in the morning. Rested, clothed, sobered by the sunlight through the curtains. He could apologize and explain himself, work past the worst of the awkwardness that was sure to come.

Washington considered all these things only blearily. He'd been exhausted even before Hamilton had knocked on his door and demanded his attention. He was wrung dry now, his thoughts spinning in ineffectual circles.

He braced his forearm along the mattress near Alexander's head and pressed himself up far enough to meet his boy's eyes. The expression he found was a perfect match for his own feelings. Exhausted and stunned and sated. Earnest. Washington's heart gave a desperate pulse at the sight, and he leaned down to take Alexander's mouth in a slower kiss.

Alexander opened for him, teased his tongue alongside Washington's, breathed a pleased sound that left Washington's senses spinning.

Eventually—reluctantly—he broke the kiss and eased his weight off of Alexander. He settled on his side, far enough over for both of them to avoid the wet spot. When he gave a hopeful tug, his boy followed readily, curling into Washington's arms like a contented cat and nuzzling at the base of his throat.

"You gonna get the lights?" Alexander's voice was groggy and soft.

"Yes," Washington said. They needed to find their ways under the covers, too. Soon enough the heat and energy of their exertions would fade, and the air was too chilly for comfort. "In a minute."

For now he did not want to move.


	6. Epilogue

Their return to normalcy is not a quick road, but at least now that they've spoken—now that they understand one another—it's easier to pretend. There are no more concerned questions from Eliza, no more guiltily avoided glances, no more fear that someone will take one good look at them and realize what Washington has done.

He no longer avoids summoning Hamilton when he needs the assistance of the boy's incisive mind.

Alexander gives no hint of reluctance to look him in the eye.

On the surface they present a front no more strange than before.

Beneath the surface, the balance they've struck is tenuous. Washington can't simply set aside the intimate memories, or the awkwardness of the morning after, and he doubts Alexander can either. Neither of them has any particular skill at denial. Worse, the knowledge of his boy’s feelings—at least, how he felt before their ill-advised night together—is a fresh new hell of distraction. Washington finds only torment in knowing that this is _not_ the hopeless infatuation of a lonely old man. This is something far more complicated, if equally impossible, and it’s _worse_.

Because he still can't have Alexander. He still has no right to crave the boy's company, to fantasize about touching him, to remember him riled and panting and naked in Washington's bed.

It’s also worse because now Hamilton knows his secret. When their eyes meet there’s an uncomfortable spark of mutual understanding.

They see each other too clearly.

But even the most uncomfortable moments smooth with time, an artificial distance that both of them embrace, as days turn to weeks turn to months. Time passes quickly in the White House, no escaping the weight and urgency of public office. There is no shortage of responsibilities—crisis after crisis—to arrest Washington's attention.

He still wonders—often—what Hamilton is thinking. He catches his boy watching him sometimes, expression unreadable and eyes piercing. He knows better than to ask. And Hamilton does not once falter in his duties. Whatever strangeness remains between them, Hamilton is too stubbornly competent to let it affect his work. They function well together in spite of everything.

Washington tells himself this is good—it _is_ good—and it will have to be enough.

It’s unreasonably early in the morning the day Hamilton stops by the Residence with no warning. Notable not for the hour—Washington is already dressed and beginning his day—but because it's the first time Hamilton has come to him alone since the night they do not discuss. The fact that it's morning can't be a matter of chance. The timing is too perfect: early enough for privacy and discretion, for a proper conversation about whatever is on Hamilton's mind; but also a finite window of time. Before long the day will truly begin, and Washington will need to depart for his office to do his damn job.

It's still a surprise to raise his head from the report he's been struggling through and find _Alexander_ standing just inside the open door. His boy looks simultaneously uncertain and determined, narrow frame standing immediately taller when their eyes meet across the room.

"Mr. President." The stiff formality of Hamilton's tone dissolves completely when he continues, "Got a minute?"

"Always," Washington says, perhaps more emphatically than necessary. He sets aside the report, dropping it on the end table beside him without a second thought. His eyes track every movement as Hamilton closes the door—not just closes but _locks_ —and the observation sets a shocky feeling loose in Washington's chest.

"Don't panic," Hamilton admonishes, a hint of genuine humor in the words. "I'm not here to seduce you."

The reassurance, so bluntly put, only makes Washington's blood pound harder.

He remains sitting as Hamilton crosses the room. His silence stems less from discretion than from the fact that—absent some clue why the boy is here—Washington has no idea what to say. He watches with unmasked curiosity as Alexander sits on the couch directly opposite him.

They sit with matching postures—both inclining forward into the space between the couches—both folding hands together with elbows braced on their knees. Unconscious on Hamilton's part perhaps, sitting to mirror Washington's pose. There's a distinctive spark in Hamilton's eyes, as his gaze settles on Washington's face without any hint of self-consciousness. The earnest edge to his expression makes Washington even more desperate to know what this is about.

"I do trust you," Hamilton says.

Washington blinks. Breathes. Feels a tension he has not even consciously recognized begin to unwind deep inside him. His heart clenches behind his ribs, but it's a good feeling. A pulse of unanticipated relief. He stares at Alexander in wordless startlement, absorbing the proclamation and resisting the urge to ask if his boy is sure.

Of course Alexander is sure; he would not have said it otherwise.

A different expression touches Hamilton's face—a faint hint of smile—and he says, "I wasn't sure you'd believe me."

"Of course I believe you." Washington speaks past a dry throat. "Why are you telling me this?"

The smile fades, replaced with a look of such piercing sincerity that Washington's chest aches.

"Because I needed you to know," Hamilton says. "Because we all fuck up sometimes, okay? You can stop self-flagellating for a mistake we both made."

Washington shakes his head, an immediate and emphatic _no_. "Alexander you didn't— I'm the one who—"

"Yeah," Hamilton interrupts. "I know. I get it. We don't have to get into that. I'm just saying, I've put a lot of thought in here. And I trust you."

It’s an incredible thing to hear, and Hamilton’s sincerity is unassailable. The guilt of Washington’s poor judgment isn't going anywhere, but there is something so straightforward and easy in the way Alexander looks at him. No hint of discomfort. Nothing at all to suggest their encounter left any lasting harm.

But there must be something more to this visit, and Washington finds himself reluctantly pressing, "This cannot be the only reason you’re here." He's not sure what makes him so completely certain of this fact, but there’s no doubt in his mind. Hamilton trusts him, and that’s wonderful, but it's not why the boy has approached him.

"No," Hamilton agrees, soft and somber. "I came to ask you a question."

There is no rational explanation for the way those words make Washington's heart race, but he waits. Wordless patience. Hoping it isn't too obvious how unsteady he suddenly feels.

Alexander hesitates a long moment, but when he speaks it's without any hint of reluctance. "I know we can't. You're the president, and it was a mistake, and we can't."

Washington holds his breath.

Alexander sits straighter. "But you won't be president forever."

Washington exhales. For an instant the world tilts sharply, leaving him disoriented and lightheaded. There s a giddy sensation in his chest. A kindling of dangerous hope, of feelings he can’t afford to indulge.

He stands abruptly from the couch and puts some distance between himself and Alexander. Not because he’s upset at what the boy is suggesting; but because he is far too hungry for it.

"Sir." There’s a rustle of sound as Alexander stands, following close behind him. "It's only five years." He says it as though reelection is a given. More importantly, he says it as though five years is _nothing_. A perfectly reasonable time to remain in this strange and asymmetrical holding pattern.

There is an edge of disbelieving hysteria behind Washington's ribs, threatening to claw loose. He tamps it down and shakes his head. "I cannot have this conversation with you."

"You _have_ to have this conversation with me," Hamilton counters, slipping from a spot somewhere behind him to stand directly in Washington's line of sight. There's defiance in the tilt of his chin as he peers up into Washington's face. "Even if it's just to tell me you're not interested. You can't just blow me off. I deserve an answer."

"You haven't asked a question." A pointless nuance, but Washington latches onto it. He knows what question Hamilton means to ask, and no good can come of an honest answer.

Hamilton glares at him but says steadily, "What about after?"

The demand is too direct to evade, and Washington can’t pretend he _doesn't_ want what Hamilton is offering. He's not a good enough liar, and Hamilton knows him too well. There's no point arguing the case on the merits.

But he still shakes his head again. "Even if I— Even if we both… I can't. _Five years_ , Alexander. I can't ask you to wait for me that long."

The reality of it hurts. It twists like a hot ball of lead in Washington's stomach and sits there, profoundly painful, a resigned and inescapable agony. It's so much worse than the quiet obsession he harbored when he didn’t know Alexander felt the same.

Alexander wants him too. And Washington still cannot keep him.

But Alexander is staring at him hard. Not glaring any longer, but taking him in as though disassembling Washington's soul one piece at a time.

When Hamilton takes a step toward him, it’s all Washington can do to hold his ground. He is terrified the boy will try to kiss him—but Alexander does no such thing. Instead he closes the distance and tucks his face to the crook of Washington's shoulder, wraps his arms around Washington's waist, and simply holds on. A hug. Shaky but determined.

Washington should push the boy away, but he keeps his arms at his sides and holds perfectly still.

" _You're_ not asking." Alexander's voice is muffled, but the words are bright and honest anyway. " _I am_. I'm asking you to give me a chance. I can wait five years. I'd wait even longer, I don't care, I just…"

The air is cool around them, but Washington feels warm. Electric with impossible potential. Silence falls between them and stretches for several seconds. Endless and open. Painfully honest.

Finally Alexander says, "Please." He sounds shattered and desperate.

Helpless.

Without answering, Washington wraps his arms around his boy and holds tightly on.


End file.
